


live, love if you can, and then pass it on

by intearsaboutrobots



Category: Campaign (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickness, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-14 05:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intearsaboutrobots/pseuds/intearsaboutrobots
Summary: A series of prompt fics done with trystanvalentine!





	1. In the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renardroi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renardroi/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bacta rescues Tamlin. Force stuff ensues.
> 
> Warnings: suicidal thoughts

Blood pounds in Bacta’s ears, drowning out his footfalls as he runs.  It’s not enough to block out the whimpers that echo down the hall, seemingly magnified by the metal walls.  Bacta feels each one like a knife in the chest.  

_ Tamlin. _

Bacta can hardly bring himself to connect the echoing sounds of raw pain to the child in his charge.  He had let this happen, it would be his fault if Tamlin- if Tamlin- 

_ You should be used to failing people who trust you by now,  _ the insidious voice in the back of his mind whispered.  Bacta studiously ignored the twinge in his chest at the words, focusing instead on propelling himself forward with every step.  

He almost doesn’t notice when the hallway opens out into a small round chamber, skidding to a stop just before the circle of raised stone in the centre.  On autopilot, he feels himself cataloguing his environment.  Intricate wall carvings, a stone shelf carrying small jars of dried herbs, a stone bowl tipped onto its side with a small pool of green liquid collected next to it.  

Bacta knows he should be processing these details, assessing the risks.  Procedure for entering an unsecured area had been drilled into him almost from birth.  The only image that he can hold onto, however, is the small figure curled on the dais.  The voice hisses again with malicious glee,  _ he’s dead he’s dead you let him die _ .  

Another whimper.  Breathing in sharply, Bacta pushes the voice away.  His back straightens as he crosses the short distance to Tamlin’s side with measured steps.  

Despite the chill of the room and the stone slab on which he’s lying, sweat stands out on Tamlin’s forehead.  His eyes are gritted shut, and his fists are clenched where they are pressed against his ears.  Shivers run up and down his entire body.  As Bacta approaches, a deeper shudder runs through Tamlin, and he lets out another pained cry.  

Bacta winces in sympathy as he reaches out.  The moment his hand lands gently on Tamlin’s shoulder, Tamlin twitches sharply.  His head snaps up to face Bacta, somehow giving the impression of following him as he lowers himself to stone, despite his eyes remaining firmly closed.  Tamlin resists slightly as Bacta tugs him into his lap, muttering incoherently.  All Bacta can make out is the repeated words ‘dangerous’ and ‘I can’t’.  

“Don’t worry about me, okay?  I’ll be fine, I’ll protect you.”

Bacta gently ruffles Tamlin’s horns, the familiar gesture out of place in this bleak situation.  Tamlin’s shivers seem to subside.  Bacta watches his expression, the lines of responsibility too heavy for his years smoothing.  Tamlin’s eyes relax a fraction.  

Bacta feels a wave of relief at the palpable sign that he could do at least this, that he could help Tamlin in some small way.  Then he notices that the stark white skin under Tamlin’s eyes seems to be tinted a sickly shade of green.  He looks closer, diagnoses flying through his mind.  

All of which are dispelled when he sees that the colour is coming from an unearthly light, bleeding from under Tamlin’s lids.  It brightens as he leans in, becoming a fierce, blinding flash.  

Bacta blinks, trying to clear his vision.  Instead, the pale afterimages seem to grow more intense, blotting out the world around him with dancing colour.  He shuts his eyes against the onslaught, only to find that the colours aren’t affected.  They continue to swirl before him in infinite variation, impossible shades moving in sinuous chaos.  

Then sound, so many overlapping notes that it’s impossible to distinguish any one tune.  The air is knocked out of Bacta’s lungs as the rest of his senses are quickly overwhelmed as well, blocking out his connection to the world with the magnitude of the experience.

And then it ends.  Bacta sways under a wave of vertigo as his senses are again limited to the scope of his own body.  His disorientation clears as he hears hitching breaths and feels a damp warmth spreading against his chest.  Tamlin is shaking quietly in his arms.  

Bacta shifts his arms, trying to see if Tamlin has been hurt somehow while he had been incapacitated.  At the movement, Tamlin looks up at him again, eyes once more tightly shut.  

“I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to!”

Horror surges through Bacta.  All that overwhelming sensation is contained in Tamlin?  The realisation of what had been done to his 5-year-old child chills him, and he gropes with still-numb fingers until he finds Tamlin’s cheek.  

“Tama,” the roughness of his voice and sharp sting at the back of his throat tell him he must have been screaming, “It’s my job to protect you.  Give me all of it.”

Tamlin makes a soft noise of protest in Bacta’s arms, but Bacta shushes him.  He summons a smile.

“I’ll be fine.  I promise.”

As he speaks, he knows the words aren’t a lie, although he suspects Tamlin will remember as them as one.  Bacta has never measured himself by his own well-being, but by how well he protects the people he loves.  By this metric, he hasn’t been near fine in a long time, not since he and his brothers had fought back to back while Sian deflected incoming blaster bolts.  This moment, doing this for Tamlin?  This might finally balance his ledger enough for him to truly claim the word again.  He brushes a thumb over Tamlin’s cheekbone, summoning memories of happier times.  

“Trust me.”

Tamlin takes a shaky breath, tears starting to spill down his cheeks.  Bacta can see the unwillingness in his body as he slowly raises his face so his closed eyes again point towards Bacta’s.  Bacta takes a last moment to think of his crew, wishing he could say goodbye.  

Tamlin’s eyes snap open, green fire blazing.  And the world explodes.  

The universe is forcing its way into Bacta’s mind, ripping it apart from the inside out.  The last vestige of coherent feeling he can muster is a sense of relief that Tamlin will be safe now, and a shameful shred of gratitude that after all he’s done he will still be allowed an honourable death.  

And then, Bacta is gone.  

* * *

Darkness.  The absence of sensation disorients.  Slowly, a slow ache filters through the nothingness.  An indefinite interval later, and the steady pain takes on a familiar shape, a body.  His body.

Bacta startles, realising that he still has the consciousness to own a body.  Feelings filter in quicker now, and he hears a low conversation somewhere to his right.  

It takes more energy than it should, but Bacta forces his eyes to open, turning his head towards the sounds.  He recognises that he’s in his bunk on the Mynock, the lights turned down low.  As three figures approach, he belatedly realises the conversation has stopped, and makes a mostly fruitless effort to prop himself up.  

Tryst breaks the silence.  

“You’re not allowed to call me reckless anymore.”  He’s still wearing his trademark cocky grin, but Bacta thinks he sees some worry in the crease between his eyebrows.  “At least I don’t get involved in this so-called “Force” mumbo-jumbo.  You’re lucky me and Leenik smashed all the weird spooky stuff and saved you.”

Lyn pinches the bridge of her nose, long-suffering.  “He means we identified and destroyed the focii of the ritual, dispersing the energies and releasing you and Tamlin.” 

Leenik must see Bacta’s distress at the mention of Tamlin and cuts in.  “He’s fine, just resting.  Tony’s looking after him.  You know, I think he might be a doctor someday!”

Studiously ignoring that last, Lyn continues, “How are you feeling after that anyway?  It would be overwhelming to someone with experience in the Force, but to have all that energy and no training in dealing with it...”

Bacta looks away from the group as she trails off, unable to maintain eye contact.  When he speaks, the lie is a familiar weight on his tongue.

“I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this first one got. Um. A lot darker than I expected.
> 
> You can yell at me [here](https://rodiansmoocher.tumblr.com) about how much I hurt this good clone boy.


	2. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyn gets sick. She handles this as maturely as any member of the Mynock's crew would be expected to.
> 
> Warnings: none

Lyn shivers, even as she pulls a second blanket around her shoulders.  Logically, she knows that the Mynock maintains a steady temperature at all times, determined by that fortnight’s Temperature Commissioner.  It’s still Leenik’s term, so that means the heat should be verging on tropical.  She does her best not to consider what the cause of her chills might be.

A clattering of feet and the sounds of an argument in full swing tells her the boys have returned from their supply run.  Shrugging off her blankets, Lyn swings her legs off the side of her bed, ignoring the wave of vertigo that almost knocks her back over.  She gives herself a moment to indulge herself as her vision steadies before she pushes herself up and makes her way into the main hallway.  

Tryst and Bacta are gesturing emphatically, although they’re talking over each other so much Lyn can’t quite tell what about.  She suspects it had something to do with the comically large bottle of margarita mix Tryst is holding possessively in one hand.  Leenik is struggling to read his holonovel with one hand while keeping the half-crushed ice cream cone in his mechanical one from dripping on anything important.  Tony is not helping by putting himself constantly underfoot, licking the ice cream off Leenik’s hand whenever possible.  

Tamlin runs up to Lyn and hugs her around the knees, big ice-cream stained smile beaming up at her.  She returns the smile on auto-pilot, trying to look like she was confident she’d stay upright if she took her hand off the doorway.

“Uncle Lyn!  We had so much fun!  And Uncle Bacta bought us ice creams, but he didn’t get Tryst any since he ‘can’t be trusted with dairy after last time’, and then Tryst got mad and stole a bunch of Bacta’s credits and bought margaritas!  And Leenik’s club dropped off a new story and he’s going to read it to me after he makes sure it doesn’t have  _ inappropriate content, _ and-” 

The run-on sentence abruptly cuts off as Tamlin suddenly gives Lyn an assessing stare.   _ He’s been spending too much time around Bacta _ , Lyn thinks.  She feels more sets of eyes land on her at Tamlin’s uncharacteristic silence, and tries not to squirm.  

“Something’s wrong in the Force,” Tamlin declares emphatically.  “With Uncle Lyn.”  Lyn grimaces at this matter-of-fact assessment, and suppresses an ill-timed shiver.  She’d hoped she was better at handling this than to be caught out after less than a minute.

By a  _ five-year-old _ .

A hand landed on her shoulder, and Lyn startles.  Bacta is suddenly in front of her, and she can’t quite remember how he had got there.  He stares first into one eye than the other, then presses the back of one hand to her forehead.  Lyn struggles not to let out a small gasp at the blessed coolness, and can’t quite keep herself from leaning forward to lengthen the contact as Bacta pulls away.  

“That’s warm, even for a Twi’lek.  Why,” and he crosses his arms in a way that should be intimidating, but mostly just makes Lyn feel like a small child again, “Are you not lying down getting rest?”  

“We have a job to do!  And I can still do my part, you don’t have to worry about that.”  Bacta’s eyes soften slightly, and Lyn bristles.  She draws herself up to her full height, glaring at him with all the strength left in her.

“I don’t need your pity!  I know I’m sick, but that’s no excuse for taking time off, not for something this important.  I’m not selfish, I know the mission is what’s important.”  Lyn realises belatedly how petulant she sounds.  At some point she had taken her hand off the wall to point angrily, and she realises now that might be why the world seemed to be wobbling back and forth.  When Bacta’s hand settles on her elbow and steers her back into the engine room, she doesn’t have the energy to fight.  

Lyn is barely settled in her hammock before Bacta shoves a thermometer at her, eying her sternly until she sulkily puts it under her tongue.  It seems she can’t escape being treated like a child.  Bacta continues to bustle around, noting her vital signs and making a quiet, disapproving ‘tsk’ periodically.  

At last, Bacta marches off to the medical bay, muttering something about ‘supplies’ and ‘stubborn damn anthropologists’.  Lyn pointedly ignores the last comment, and tries not to sigh with relief as she lays back against her pillow.  She closes her eyes and does her best to tune out the sound of Bacta striding to the medkit.  She can almost pretend she’s alone like this, with no one to see her so weak.  

* * *

A shadow falls over her face.  Lyn groans before prying open heavy lids.  Tryst is looming over her, a sly look on his face.  

“Bacta’s going to be back soon, and he’ll be insufferable for at least the next week.”  Tryst leans in close enough that she can smell the lime and alcohol on his breath.  Apparently he’d started making a dent in the margarita mix.

“If you want to make it through intact, you’ll need this.”  A thin metal container is pressed covertly into Lyn’s palm.  She takes it automatically, looking down quickly to see that she’s holding a cheap silver flask.  Checking the doorway for any sign of Bacta’s approach, she unscrews the top and sniffs.  

Lyn looks back up at Tryst.  

“Is this… Port in a Storm?”  She can’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.  “Tryst, this wine could knock someone in perfect health out.  I think it’ll kill me.”

Tryst winks, as if he hasn’t heard anything of what she’s said.  

“Old family recipe.  Clears the sickness right out of you, and makes dealing with Bacta’s mothering more bearable to boot.”  

As if summoned, they both hear Bacta’s boots returning.  Tryst gives Lyn one last knowing smirk, and taps the side of his nose.  

“Keep this between you and me, alright?”  Then he spins on his heel and leaves the engine room.  Lyn can hear him purposefully bump into Bacta in the hallway, and from the tone of the following exchange imagines he will be putting a credit in the Tryst jar.  She shakes her head in disbelief, eyeing the flask with trepidation.

She does still tuck it under her pillow as Bacta enters.  It may well kill her, but that would be preferable to dying under all this babying.

* * *

40 minutes later and Lyn is tucked up under her blankets, a glass of water within easy reach and a container of fever reducers and painkillers next to it, with instructions on when to take them meticulously typed up on a nearby datapad.  She has been left with strict orders to ‘get some damn rest before I make you rest’.

Lyn does not want to rest.

Lyn is mid- mutinous sip from Tryst’s flask when a polite tap comes at the doorway.  She chokes in surprise, leaving her uncontrollably spluttering.  Leenik pokes his head in, looking concerned.  He’s wearing his apron, and Lyn can see that he’s holding a mug of something.  She gestures him into the room as her coughing subsides.  He enters somewhat tentatively, holding the mug before him like a shield.  

“I, um.  Made you some soup.”  Lyn takes the mug, seeing now that vegetables are floating in a thin broth, along with chunks of something she couldn’t immediately identify.

“It’s ham, by the way.”

Ah.  That made sense.  Lyn sipped at the broth tentatively, finding it hot but not unpleasantly so.  She wrapped both hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into her bones.  Looking up, she felt a smile tug at her mouth.

“Thank you, Leenik.  It’s perfect.”

Leenik awkwardly rubbed the back of his head with his mechanical hand.  Lyn could see the beginning of a dark green blush spreading across his face.  He muttered some excuse about ‘a pie in the oven’ in the direction of the exhaust nacelle as he spun on his heel and promptly exited.  

Lyn lay back, still smiling and sipped her soup again.

* * *

Lyn wakes from a fevered doze with a jolt.  She blinks, trying to put together the fragmented pieces she can remember of her dreams.  Pieces of old memories haphazardly stuck together with stories she’s studied in school make an unbalanced, shifting image.  Her inability to remember any more clearly fills Lyn with a vague sense of unease.

Lost in thought, she almost doesn't notice the small footsteps running excitedly down the hall until a horned figure runs through her doorway.  Tamlin dashes up to her hammock and tugs on the edge of a blanket.

“Uncle Lyn!”  Belatedly, he lowers his voice to a whisper and asks, “Uncle Lyn, are you awake?”

Lyn shifts into a half-sitting position against her pillow and smiles down at Tamlin’s face, screwed into a look of genuine concern.  Turning her focus from the last of the dream’s chaotic images, she smiles reassuringly.

“What is it, Tamlin?”

Tamlin’s eager grin reappears in a flash, and he bounces on his toes with uncontained excitement.  

“Uncle Leenik finished his holonovel, and he said it would be okay for me to read it.  And since I know you’re feeling bad, and stories always make me feel better, I thought I could read it to you!”  Tamlin looks up at her excitedly.  “Do you want me to read it to you?”

For a moment, Lyn can see her brother’s face in Tamlin, remembering all the times they had put up in some corner and read stories together.  She blinks rapidly, and her throat is tight as she replies, “That would be lovely.”

If Tamlin hears the emotion in her voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it, too engaged with struggling to lift himself into the hammock next to her.  It takes some minutes, a few near falls, and much enthusiastic kicking on Tamlin’s part, but at last he’s lying with his head resting on one of Lyn’s arms and Lyn half-curled around him.  

Lyn tugs the blankets into place over both of them as Tamlin pulls out the holonovel and flicks to the first page.  He clears his throat with authority before beginning to read.  

“ _ Parsecs of Passion _ , Chapter One.  The night air was cool against Miralie’s face as they stared off the balcony over their father’s estate.  Nightbirds cooed softly in the gardens below.  Although their song was beautiful, it only served to remind Miralie of how free the birds were, and how free they were not.”

Lyn lets the purple prose wash over her as Tamlin continued reading.  The holonovel is not one she would have picked for herself, far too full of overwrought descriptions of Miralie gazing into their beautiful but dangerous kidnapper’s eyes for her taste, but she finds the predictable storyline to be soothing.  The fact that Tamlin is essentially a tiny heat pack doesn’t hurt either.  

  
Sighing softly as Miralie finds herself in mortal peril for the third time in a chapter, Lyn allows her eyes to drift shut.  A traitorous voice in the back of her mind whispers that maybe letting herself be babied isn’t so bad, and Lyn doesn’t have the energy to deny it as she slips into sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More notes:
> 
> Any inconsistencies in how sickness works are because of alien physiology, and therefore Not a failing on my part.
> 
> Port in a Storm is a kanan drink, it's a very strong wine beverage from Space Scotland, and also it has literally the best name. Read _Bloodline_ by Claudia Grey if you want to see the work of art I stole it from (and then come [talk to me](https://rodiansmoocher.tumblr.com) about how fantastic that book is)
> 
> 'Parsecs of Passion' is stolen from the very long list of romance novel titles on the One Shot wiki.


End file.
